How Quaint the Ways of Paradox
by Ajora
Summary: [FFV, pre-canon] It turns out that a pirate captain was chosen as the Light Warrior of Fire. Faris thinks there might have been a mistake.
1. Arson

Faris was fourteen when she was on shore leave to Crescent Island and fell hard into infatuation with a pretty Jacolean dancer. Shula was everything she wasn't: short and voluptuous, raven-haired and dark-eyed, with beautiful golden-brown skin. Her cheeks dimpled when she grinned at Faris from up on the dance stage. The Istorian boy she grew up with on the ship teased her mercilessly for staring. Knowing that she had to show him up just once, she flipped him a rude gesture and approached the dancer with a bravado that hid her nerves and the utter brass to ask to be her dancing partner just once.

Shula found her very charming and invited Faris to her room. The whirlwind affair that followed was her first. It lasted up until she had to ship out.

Faris is seventeen and the youngest pirate captain in history when she runs into Shula again. Her dark brown eyes don't have that sparkle anymore and she lost enough weight that Faris almost didn't recognize her. Had Shula not tugged on her greatcoat while Faris was on her way to solicit a cuddly bed-warmer for the night, she might have passed her by.

Upon seeing the bruising around her first love's upper arm, Faris promptly scuppers her personal plans.

"I knew you'd make captain sooner than later," Shula says once they're in the privacy of Faris' room at the inn. The fondness on her face makes her look less careworn. She settles carefully on the bed, as if grateful for the reprieve. "Glad it was sooner."

As much as she would like to catch up, Faris skips right past the pleasantries. "Who did that to you?"

Shula blinks owlishly at her, momentarily thrown, and looks down at her hands. Once soft and delicate, now they're callused by hard work. Her nails are shorter than Faris recalls, and two of them broken. The hands ball into fists in her lap, as if she's _embarrassed_ for some reason. "Oh, well, you know me. I'm not very bright."

Faris has to resist the urge to snort at that. Maybe Shula has that thing where letters rearrange themselves and words go backwards when she tries to read, but her letter-reading ability has nothing on her ability to read _people_, or her ability to intuit where to place her feet and keep her balance in a complicated dance. "It's not an answer, love."

"It's my boss," Shula admits, with a bit of a wry smile. She has always known Faris well enough to predict what she's going to do; Faris suspects that Shula hopes to prevent her running off for vengeance before she's out the door. "He just gets…frustrated with my pace sometimes. It's hard to keep up with demand and still work safely. It's not his fault. And, really, he does this to everyone."

That's the other thing with Shula: she's far too forgiving. But then, she probably wouldn't have given a young pirate a chance if she wasn't. "Fuck that. Where do you work?"

"Sugar mill. Faris, _honestly_," she says with a wee bit of exasperation, "I just want passage off Crescent."

Granted, Faris doesn't know much about sugarcane cultivation and processing. She just knows a few men who went on account because they lost fingers at mills and could no longer find work. Shula could lose more than just the tips of her nails if her boss insists on pushing her. A lot of people could.

But for now, Faris sets that thread of thought aside.

"You'll get your passage. We set out in two days." Faris pauses to glance over Shula's form. She's too generous in the breast and hips to crossdress well without significant pain from the bindings and padding she'd have to wear, and too feminine besides, so that option is right out. Nor is there time to train her in how to walk like a man, or pitch her voice lower. "I'll need to smuggle you into my cabin before dawn, and you can't be seen out of it. Will that be a problem?"

Shula's lips quirk in an attempt to suppress a smile. "Still don't allow girls on board, huh?"

"For your own safety." Faris is aware of the irony of forbidding women as regular crewmembers, given the propensity of buggerers and catamites to flock to pirate ships, but the codes of conduct are voted upon by the majority and she's always in the minority on that point. Someday they will all figure her out, and she hopes it's far enough in the future that she won't have much to regret.

"Of course." The smile of acquiescence breaks out on Shula's face and the matter is dropped. Aside from one last admonition not to do anything rash, she settles comfortably into Faris' room like she was always meant to be there.

The reunion that night went about as well as could be expected. The dawn reminds Faris that there was a reason why she didn't seriously consider going back to Shula when she could—she knows she can be difficult and run roughshod over people when given the chance, and Shula's so sweet and cloying that Faris frequently finds herself frustrated with her too-agreeable nature. If Faris is going to seriously settle down with anyone, she'd rather be with someone more willing to stand up to her.

She's _seventeen_; it doesn't really matter. There's time aplenty to think about that kind of thing when she's older.

Faris excuses herself from Shula with the pretext that she has business to attend to. The knowing look in Shula's eyes suggests she's aware of what Faris has planned, but she won't press the issue. To her quartermaster she leaves a list of things to add to their supplies when he visits the sutler, and to the pilot and bos'n she leaves reminders that they still need to replace their doctor. And, if they have to, she recommends pressganging promising souls.

Not that Faris particularly _needs_ to pressgang people. Blackmail works just as well. There's always someone with debts they need settled. There's always someone who has fallen on hard times. So on. The bos'n is particularly good at ferreting out the desperate. The terms of her ship's articles—equal shares for all, with the captain, quartermaster, and individual acts of bravery earning only two shares and the other officers earning a share and a half—are usually enticement enough for that lot.

With her usual port business items delegated, Faris is free to seek out support for her plans. She's discreet about it, of course. Asks the beggars about their various amputations while dropping off some gil. Makes smalltalk with the urchins. Listens in on the grumblings in the pubs. The picture painted by loose lips is one of a too-demanding mill owner who sacrifices employee safety to meet increasing demands for Crescent Island's famous rum and molasses. The man needs to be knocked down a bit and she's more than happy to do it.

Finding the man's home and learning his patterns doesn't take much time. Bless the urchins and their sense of fair play; they're quick to tell her what she needs to know when plied with just enough gil and sweets. If she sends them off with more gil than they usually get from begging, well, maybe it'll do them some good.

_Syldra, my love_, Faris calls out once she finds a quiet alley to hide out in and shift her focus further away. Insofar as one _can_ call out, mentally. She's never been able to figure out how their connection works, but she's grateful it's there.

Nearly as soon as she cast out the thought, she tastes blood and salt in her mouth and feels water rushing around her. It's a reciprocal bond—her great sea dragon can feel what it's like to walk on land through her when he wishes to open himself to the experience. _You want to cause trouble?_

_Bloody mind reader_. She lets the fond, teasing tone permeate through their bond. _It's not trouble, it's justice_.

_Sure it is_. His head breaches through the water, allowing her to see Crescent Island in the distance through his eyes. Syldra swallows down his food, a sahagin, and she can almost feel its spines scrape as it slides down her/his throat.

As her soul's brother swims back to the general vicinity of the island, Faris shares with him her thoughts and plans. Syldra agrees to play along, but he always does. They share the same spirit, after all.

Syldra joins her, at least mentally, as she explore around the mill owner's home while he's out. He catches things through her senses that she doesn't always notice, which makes this so much easier. Syldra notices the almost too-faint smell of fresh paint and sawdust in a room in the process of renovation. It's _perfect_: save for a little more accelerant, everything she needs is already available. There's even a window with an eastward-facing exposure for a nice morning ignition.

Soon as she makes her plans, Faris leaves the house without a single thing disturbed. Best not tip the man off too soon by moving his things about, after all.

The rest of the day goes as usual. She stands by as her quartermaster has the ship loaded with supplies and nicks a pail of oil-based varnish, and maybe slips mention that she wants to be out of town by the morn. Tracks down her bos'n to check up on his recruitment drive. Tells everyone in earshot that she plans on a morning swim with Syldra and not to wait up on her if she's not back in time. Collects old and prospective crewmen alike to take all the votes and dismiss them once she records the results—and of course she's outvoted on the bit about excluding women. Watches her crew as they make merry and hassle the pubs. Goes back to Shula at the end of the day. Hey, she's just human, she's allowed.

Morning brings groaning, hungover pirates back to the ship. Her quartermaster, a man of foolish and unwavering loyalty, helped her smuggle Shula aboard and into her cabin before the sun went up. The ordinary sailor's slops she wears makes her nearly indistinguishable from every other seaman on the busy docks. Faris cheerfully slaps a few of her long-time companions on the back as they shamble up the gangplank and makes off for the mill owner's house with pail of varnish in hand. By the most indirect route possible, of course.

Now, admittedly Faris doesn't really know _why_ rags doused in certain substances just combust sometimes. She's no scholar; her education was practical, not theoretical. Faris just remembers being twelve years old and listening with rapt attention as the ship's chief gunner and the carpenter discussed spontaneous ignition and the hazards presented by dirty and neglected materials in their respective fields. Oily rags left bundled together will ignite as surely as forgotten embers in the barrel of a cannon.

Once the mill owner leaves the house for the day, she sneaks in the back, picks the lock, pockets some valuables to hand off to Shula later, and finds the room again. It takes some time to sweep the sawdust around the carefully-placed pail that smells of varnish; she hums _Drunken Sailor_ to herself as she does it. A little more time to spill a trail of the varnish she brought with her to a span of unfinished wooden wall paneling. With her fuel distributed nicely, she takes the wads of dry wash rags she stole from the kitchen, soaks them in the last of the varnish, and bundles them up tightly in the pail. Tips the pail on its side so that the eventual fire can access the rest of the fuel. Once the morning sunlight warms the pail just enough, it'll help the rags combust.

To be sure that Faris is nowhere near the house when it goes up in flames, she sneaks back out and takes several back alleys until she makes it to the docks. Not that she cares about being discovered, but it's the principle that counts. Her crew didn't need to wait for her, but she's glad they did—an actual swim out in polluted _harbor water_ holds no appeal for her.

By the time Syldra feels that the ship is far enough from shore, he surfaces and deigns to be hooked up to the deceptively light mithril chains that let him tug the ship along. The newcomers _ooh_ and _ahh_ over him and he soaks it up like the lush he is.

_As if you don't enjoy the attention, yourself_, Syldra teases. He cranes his head over for a scratch.

With a fond smile she never gives to anyone human, Faris reaches out to scratch at the gaps between her friend's silvery scales. "You're my pride and joy, love. 'Course I like it when they ogle you."

An hour later, she excuses herself to swap her slops for her usual attire and settles down at her desk to file the crew roster and ship's articles for the season. Shula sits in her narrow bunk and busies herself by doing some stitching. At some point, during which she puzzles out food rationing and how to keep Shula from being found out, Syldra shares with her the image of a great black plume wafting from the upper class district of Crescent Island. It must be her little rag fire. It's probably a lovely blaze. Shame she couldn't stick around for it, but she's got work to do.

The _Maelstrom_ heads to the port associated with Jacole. Officially, it's to take advantage of the summer trade and stalk the Nazalea archipelago for wayward ships. Unofficially, it's to drop off Shula in her home town. With any luck, both ventures will be successful.


	2. Perjury

Faris isn't quite sure when Benjiro Inomoto joined the crew. Maybe when she was six years old? He was eight or nine or something. The pilot, Renji, brought him aboard because the nice lady in Tule said Faris needed a companion her age, and Renji had an available nephew. Ben was to be her _minder_.

Frankly, Faris hated his guts for a couple of years there. She didn't need a _minder_, and certainly not a _boy_. She did what she could to either escape him or lash out at him, depending on her mood at the time. Ben put up with everything gamely and sometimes it was infuriating.

They've settled into a pattern of sorts by the time she's fourteen. Faris definitely doesn't need a minder now, not when she's a _quartermaster_, and Ben has his own pet obsessions in, of all things, _law _and_ accounting_. His uncle is probably disappointed in him. Were he not as useful as he is, Faris would rather haul him out to the Ancient Library to play scholar and be done with it. At least then maybe she wouldn't have to hear his opinions on the history of _property law_.

When she sits still long enough and Ben has nothing better to do, he'll bend her ear with ideas about the fall of Lonka and the rise of the merchant class, and how the laws changed to protect property over human lives, and how the wealth of the three kingdoms is dependent on the exploitation of the Crystals, and how much poverty could be mitigated if the kingdoms spent their wealth on public works instead of protecting the wealthy, and, and, and…

As if any of it matters. In the eyes of proper society, they're still the scum of the earth regardless of what they actually do. Might as well live down to expectations.

It's a foggy, chill morning in Istory when Faris has to haggle with the sutler over the price of rope, creosote, and other odds and ends to keep the _Carwen's Revenge_ in top form. Frankly, she hates haggling and would rather either pay full cost and be done with it or rob his warehouse. But haggling is part of the quartermaster's job, and the captain insists she needs enough experience and a reputation if she wants to be voted in as captain herself.

Ben barges in on her once she finally agrees to a semi-decent price on a few crates of chain shot. He has the grace to wait for her to conclude business, at least.

"Got us in a bit of a cauch," Ben starts the moment Faris leaves the sutler's shop.

Faris has to batten down the urge to sigh as she hauls Ben into a reeking alleyway. Being as neither of them are prone to excesses of vice—her because she needs to keep her wits about her to keep her secret, Ben because _his_ secret may very well get him disowned by his uncle—she expects that Ben made a proper job of his mess.

"What is it?"

Now that they're actually talking, Ben wastes her time with meandering. His sailor's Tulish/Carwenian bastard of an accent slips just a bit into his native Istorian; the _r_ and _l_ start sounding the same, he drops consonants sometimes at the ends of words, and he softens the ending words in his sentences. "Well, y'see, last night I spent with a right 'ansome lad, aye? 'Cept we got catched by 'is granfer and I ran."

For a moment Faris wonders what any of this has to do with her. Ben's penchant for his own isn't anywhere near _her_ wheelhouse, and frankly she never cared to take him up on his offers for experimenting even in passing curiosity. She likes girls and would love to play a game at flats with one. Or several. She just needs to get up the courage to _approach_ a girl, first.

This is Istory, where Ben's predilections are frowned upon. His uncle is a noted bigot about these things, which is _ridiculous_ in light of the fact that pirate ships draw buggerers and catamites like flowers draw bees. He watches her with nervous brown eyes behind shaggy dark hair and somehow it's _worse_.

"What else?"

"'E, er, might've given yer name instead of mine."

The outrage bursts from her the moment she can connect the dots, hot and barely containable. "You're _using my name_—"

"I'm not! But we talk. And 'e knows I've family and…"

_And you don't_ hangs in the air like miasma.

The bits settle into place, tossing water on the flames of her initial indignation. Girls mature early, and at fourteen Faris already has height enough to tower over most Istorians. Certainly she has a good deal of height over Ben, whom she used to have to glower up at. In her black greatcoat and with foreign hair and eyes, she sticks out like a sore thumb. She has no family to shame, no nation to swear allegiance to, nothing to tie her down to the laws of men. She's young enough that a slight stain on her reputation like _buggery_ can be overshadowed by future endeavors and scandals.

Ben does that nervous thing where he chews on the inside of his lower lip. _He_ has a family, a nation, roots he can't yet pull up while he's this young. Where she might face a bit of laughter and lose nothing but a bit of pride, he stands losing a lot more.

He's useful in a way a lot of other deck hands aren't, and it's the quartermaster's job—_her job_—to keep the useful ones on account. He's good with numbers and remembering rules; if she ever makes captain, he'd be her first choice for quartermaster.

"The granfer's out for blood, you think?"

"Like as not." His nerves ease a little in response to her taking the sharpness out of her tone.

Faris sighs, resisting the urge to scrub her face with her palm. One thing at a time. She needs confirmation on her suspicions before she can run with a plan of attack. "The boy's name and his granfer's position?"

"Eh…" Ben tenses up again; less in fear and more in shame. "Ogawa. Tetsu. His granfer's the harbormaster."

Of _course_ he had to engage in night physicals with nearly the worst person imaginable. Might as well bite the bullet. "You owe me."

Looking properly contrite, Ben says nothing as he follows her out the alley and back to the docks. They have work to do, just like any other sailor. She simply lets slip to the crew that there might be a scene and they're invited, just in case.

Ogawa-the-grandfather finally comes for her while she's watching over the loading of fresh supplies onto the ship. He's a full head shorter than her, but he's flanked by village watchmen. The youth she presumes to be Tetsu trails behind, trying desperately to look braver than he is. Still, in the interest of pretending to be bigger and worse than she is, she ignores the entourage and writes out the incoming inventory into her notepad.

"You're Faris Scherwiz?" Ogawa says it like an accusation.

"_Busy_ is what I am." Faris' eyes keep to the barrels the crew roll up the gangplank; she can't afford to show weakness, not now. "Unless you've got a free six-pounder, I'm not interested."

Faris can feel his eyes boring into her and refuses to cave. Though, if he'd caught his grandson and Ben at their endeavors, he evidently didn't see _much_ if he thinks she's the right size to be confused for Ben.

"It seems to me that you had enough time to ruin a young boy last night."

Ah, there it is. Faris smirks as she returns his glare with the smugness of a dragon, thoroughly relishing the opportunity to play the villain. Half of being a pirate captain is theatrics, and she could do with the practice. "Seems to me he wasn't complaining."

The man bristles and puffs himself up. Before he can respond, she hands Ben her notepad and steps right into his personal space. Looms over him like the dastardly pirate she is. Despite himself, the man steps back. Her smirk widens into a grin. "Wanna bite a pillow yourself, eh?"

Then his face goes red as he sputters in his outrage. He stammers several times before he takes in a breath and kicks his voice louder. "I would _nev_—how _dare_—Buggery is _illegal_—"

"Good thing I'm not Istorian, then." Just to push Ogawa a little more, she leans in close and speaks in a stage whisper. "Protesting a bit much, aren't you?"

He steps back again, stumbling into his watchmen as he does so. Surrounded as they are by pirates, they keep a steely hold on their nerves. Which is commendable considering the younger of the two has a hand twitching on his sword hilt.

Faris glances at Tetsu. He might almost be _pretty_, were it not the scraggly hairs at his chin. A youth's attempt at a beard. An attempt at looking like he's mature. It makes him look awkward, instead. She softens her voice for him, hoping it'll at least _look_ like they had an affair at some point. "Wanna join the crew, love? Seein' as you're _illegal_ here and all."

The color drains from the grandfather's face in fear. It's not what she expected, but maybe she shouldn't be as surprised as she is. He was just trying to protect his grandson.

"No, it's okay." Tetsu manages a weak smile. "But thanks for the offer."

"Right." Faris turns and takes her pad from Ben to resume her work. Her voice raises to bark at the crew. "Back to work, lads! Crates won't load themselves."

The men scatter, the harbormaster and his entourage retreat to think on the matter, and Faris resumes her tally of the supplies coming aboard.

By the time the _Carwen's Revenge_ leaves Istory, word of Faris' demonstration spreads to everyone who hadn't witnessed it. When teased by the chief gunner about whether she'd finally decided to try her hand at backgammon, she admits that she was protecting the honor of one of the crew and leaves it at that.

Captain Merrick Reid said nothing about it until they turn in for the night; they've shared a cabin since she was small and this is normal for them. He watches her from the bunk as she works at his desk on the victuals rationing, but he always seems to lately. She's not sure why, but he's so prickly about questioning that she seldom asks anymore.

"You took a risk, lad," he finally says once she finishes up her figures. "Coulda gotten yourself executed."

Faris dabs the excess ink off the quill and puts up the writing tools before answering. "It's my job to keep the useful crew on account, innit?"

"Aye." Something about his craggy old face suggests she should continue.

"Ben's got the makings of a good quartermaster," she says as she changes to her nightshirt. He always looks away, even though he knows her secret and she knows that he was a girl once upon a time. "I want him as quartermaster when I'm captain."

His face shifts, a little. He's _terrible_ at showing anything on his face, so she can only guess what he's feeling. "Pirate ships aren't a kingdom. You don't get to choose. The crew does."

"No, but I can suggest. You did it for me, didn't you?" Her guardian's face remains unreadable, so she extinguishes the oil lamp and climbs into the top bunk. Faris can hope and hope for some kind of connection with him, some sort of intimacy like that between real parents and offspring, and he'll insist on being a bastard and refusing her. "'Sides, taking his crime myself in front of everyone wins the crew's loyalty."

There's a long moment of silence in the darkness interrupted only by the lapping of waves against the hull. The ship creaks in that way that reassures her that all's well with its bones. It sways and she wonders if her mother ever rocked her to sleep. Or her father. If she ever had either.

"Good," Merrick says at last. "You're learning."

Faris knows better than to ask what he means. He'll never explain. But that's all right, because this is just how they are. The captain and the quartermaster are the twin powers on a pirate ship. It's Merrick's job to wage war and plan raids. It's her job to take care of the crew.

And she tells herself to go to sleep already before she starts considering herself the patriarch of this temporary family of hers and Merrick's. Because that's nonsense. She has no family.

* * *

I wasn't sure about applying "Perjury" to this chapter, but the other option was "Sodomy", and, well, that wasn't going to work. But after reviewing the evolution of British law, which I use as an inspiration source for this series, I figure "Perjury" can probably work on account of the harbormaster being technically an official and the watchmen being close enough to constables.

Fun fact: at 172 cm (5' 7.7"), Faris is taller than most Japanese men.

Another fun fact feeding into this, but I wasn't sure how to include and might just leave it for later: in Japanese, "pirate" (かいぞく) and "family"(かぞく) are a syllable off.


End file.
